


The Best Defense

by kronette



Series: Best Defense [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Joe story, for the most part. Someone stumbles upon a Quickening, and Joe must see how much damage control needs to be done. This first part is PG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Defense

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta readers Kelly, Sandi, Julie, Ann S., and whoever else read it. Originally posted in 1997 under my real name.

"It's going to be a bad one. Don't touch anything metal," Joe Dawson warned the woman with him as he pulled her further away from the scene. He noted with approval that she still had her pen and notebook, and was jotting down notes. She just might get that promotion after all.

The victorious Immortal staggered to her feet, sword clenched in her right hand. She half-turned to face them as she raised her sword to the night sky. White mist rose from the decapitated body and enfolded her. She groaned as it permeated her skin, and Dawson winced as the Quickening started.

It _was_ a bad one. The roar was deafening, and the light show caused the streetlights to flicker, then extinguish. The woman looked to be standing in the middle of a hurricane. Wind caused her short hair to whip at her face, contorted in pain/pleasure. She screamed as lightning danced along her outstretched arms, then struck another lamppost, shattering the bulb.

Dawson ducked his head as trash started to fly, but raised it again. He thought he saw someone standing just on the other side of the street. He squinted through the debris, though he couldn't make anything out.

"Stay here and keep recording," he instructed Sharon, then started to make his way across the street. Halfway across, he started to curse. He had been right; there was someone over there, watching the whole thing. An uninvited guest to their little party. Moving just a bit quicker, Dawson came around the man in an attempt not to startle him -- and to observe him more closely.

He was a young man of around twenty-two, not overly handsome, with a terrified expression on his face. He had on a long trench coat over jeans and a baggy sweater; typical student clothes. His eyes were locked on the woman, who by Dawson's experience, was almost through with her absorption. Joe was prepared to wait until the Quickening was through to confront the man about what he had seen, then he heard the man whisper, "Bloody hell." The man's hands dropped out of his pockets, and he started to move toward the woman.

"Shit," Joe murmured as he gripped the man's shoulder firmly.

The man started badly, then he whipped around, his fist curled, ready to strike.

Joe didn't let him go, but did loosen his grip somewhat. "Wait!" he hissed, holding up his free hand. "Just wait."

The man fixed him with an indecipherable look, probably absolute disbelief. "We've got to help her," the man shouted over the roar.

He turned back to face the woman who was still in the throes of the Quickening.

Joe shook his head. "No, just wait. She'll be fine in a minute." No sooner had the words left his mouth than the storm died down, and the woman dropped to her knees.

The man tugged at Joe's grip, but he held firm. "Please, wait," Joe asked quietly as he gently pulled the man back into the shadows. The man went without resistance, though his gaze never left the woman.

Joe noted the man's trembling body under his hand and sighed. Poor kid. Not what he had in mind for a Friday night, Joe was sure of that. "You okay?" he asked.

"Okay?" The man croaked. "There's been a murder, and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

The hysteric level was rising in his voice, and Joe grew worried. He didn't need a panicked bystander blowing their cover.

"It's okay, really. It wasn't what it looked like."

This time Joe had no doubt to the man's expression; it _was_ one of absolute disbelief.

"It _didn't_ look like that woman was standing over that _very dead man_ with a _sword_ in her hand, in the middle of a lightning storm?" the man growled with clipped precision.

Joe fought to keep the grin from his face. At least he was accurate, if nothing else. "Well, yes," he had to admit. "But the reason behind it..."

"What reason?" The man jerked out of Joe's grip and took a step forward. "She just killed that man! We've got to ring the police..."

"No," Joe gently interrupted him. "It's not our place to interfere."

"Interfere in what?" The man turned to Joe, questions in his dark eyes.

Joe was a bit surprised by what he saw in them; bright with intelligence, the kind that was rare. A fiery need to know and to learn, but not to judge. The question was a legitimate one, and one the man wanted an answer to.

"I may be able to answer your questions, but can we go somewhere and sit first? I ain't as young as I used to be," Dawson joked lightly. He leaned on his cane to support his own weight, and grunted in relief as some of the pressure was taken off his artificial legs. He kept his expression open as the man studied him, not wanting to frighten him any more than he already was.

Joe watched as the man's eyes shone with wariness, then faded to an uneasy acceptance.

"Okay. There's a bar down the block. I - I just came from there," the man explained, a dazed look starting to flush his face. "Good domestics."

Joe grinned. "Lead the way...oh, wait," he held up his hand. He had forgotten about Sharon. "I need to make sure my friend's okay, then I'll join you right here. Promise me you won't go anywhere?" Joe tried to keep it a request, though he let a thread of a command slip in. The man was quick; he straightened and nodded sharply. Satisfied he wasn't going anywhere, Joe gave some last minute instructions to Sharon, then rejoined the man on the sidewalk.

They started walking in silence, their steps almost in tandem. Joe didn't notice for a minute, then he blinked in surprise. His carefully timed steps faltered as he glanced over at the man.

He smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I noticed the cane," he murmured.

"You're very observant," Joe remarked as he resumed his rhythm. This one looked promising. He might make an excellent addition to the Watchers, if he could keep it together during their talk. The next hour or two would be very telling, and Joe needed to be sure this man could keep the Watchers' secret before he told him anything else.

The man shrugged again, his shoulders hunched over as the chilly wind picked up. "Old habits."

Conversation died off as the wind started to howl, but soon they arrived at the bar and slipped inside. The warmth hit Joe square in the face, and he breathed deeply. "Feels good in here," he observed.

"Yeah, I tend to come here a lot," the man replied as he nodded to the man behind the bar and selected a table. He waited for Joe to sit down before he did; something Joe definitely took note of.

"You're awfully nice to strangers you've picked up in dark alleyways," Joe drawled teasingly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

The kid still looked tense, which was only intensified when he removed his coat. He was thin; not quite gangly, but not hefty by any stretch of the imagination. The veins in his arms were standing out, and the hairs on his arms were standing up.

"Another habit," the man murmured as he stood back up. "You want something to drink? I need a beer," he remarked more to himself than Joe.

"Yeah, beer'd be great. Whatever's on tap." Joe took in the atmosphere while the man waited for the drinks. Clean bar, semi-dark, yet had a down- home feel to it. Definitely not run by a Frenchmen.

"Here you go."

The man set Joe's drink in front of him, and he took a sip. "Pretty good."

The man flung one long leg over the chair and sat down. "I like it," the man murmured as he downed half his drink in one gulp.

Joe watched him, keeping his amusement hidden. The man obviously wanted to ask a ton of questions, but was waiting for Joe to make the opening. He decided to put the man out of his misery. "So."

He picked up on the opening right away. "Yeah, so. Mind telling me what that was back there?"

"What did you see?" Joe countered. Always best to let them talk first. Maybe only mild damage control was needed; maybe something more drastic. And sometimes, in special circumstances, they became Watchers. If nothing else, this could be a test at how accurate the man's observation was, and how accurate he was at retelling it. Sometimes, the people surprised him.

The man folded his arms on the table and leaned in closer. His voice dropped low as he replied, "I was walking home from here, and I passed the alley. I saw flashes of light, and it caught my attention. As I got closer, I heard a strange ringing sound, like metal being struck, so I moved more carefully. I rounded the corner and came upon..."

The man's voice drifted off as he stared helplessly at Joe, unable to say exactly what he had come upon. Understandable, as not that many mortals had ever seen Immortal's fights.

"What you saw was ritual combat. Yes, to the death," he answered before the man could ask; he could see the expression change on his face before the man could even form the question. A very quick one, he was. "What else did you see?"

"I watched for a bit, just frozen in place. I mean, they were fighting with swords!" He lowered his voice even further as his hands gestured. "That's not something you see on the street. It's something you see in films. I guess I was fascinated by it all..."

A guilty flush colored the man's hollow cheeks, and Joe laid a hand on his arm. "Listen, it's okay. Would it help you to know that it's not in your place...or mine, to interfere?"

"But what aren't we supposed to be interfering _in_? What kind of people hold ritual combats in this day and age? Those went out with knights and swords..."

The irony struck them both, and they chuckled. Some of the tension dissipated. "Well, knights are pretty much dead and gone, but swords are still in style...for some people," Joe answered. He abruptly switched gears. "You believe in science fiction? Fantasy?"

The man's nose crinkled as he thought, and he took another sip of his beer. "Um, not really _fiction_...more fact. But I'm open to most things, yes."

"You a student?" Joe asked. Familiarity was always a good thing; maybe this would loosen the kid up. He was still tense.

The man shifted uneasily in his seat. "Yeah, at the university. Final semester."

The personal nature of the question made him uneasy, Joe sensed that. Time to get back on track with the $64,000 question. "What about...immortals? People living forever?"

The man was quiet for a long minute, his lips pursed as he thought. "I suppose it's possible. Though if their genetic makeup is different than ours, wouldn't it show up on hospital records and such?"

Joe chuckled at the man's insight. "Well, that's a bit further down the road than I wanted to travel right now. How about we just say that yes, you do believe it's a possibility."

The man nodded. "All right. People can live forever. What does that have to do with what I saw tonight?"

"The woman engaged the man in ritual combat, because that is their way. They are both Immortal."

Joe watched the man's eyes cloud with confusion.

"But the man is dead."

Joe sighed. "He is now, yes." Too much, too soon. He should know better than to start off with death. It usually just confused the poor people. "Let's back up a bit. There are Immortals all around the world. Our job is to watch them, record their actions, and not interfere in their lives."

"'Our' job? Who are you?" the man asked suspiciously.

Joe raised his sleeve and showed him the tattoo. "A Watcher. We have been around for as long as Immortals have been around; recording. It is not our place to judge or to question. Our only job is to keep accurate records for future generations. We're historians."

The man's eyes lit up at that bit of information, and he leaned further onto the table, closer to Joe. Caught his attention, had he? "What do you study at the university?" Joe asked.

"Ancient history and languages, specifically Cuneiform and Farsi," the man answered, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. "How long have they been around, then?"

Joe took a long drought of his drink before answering. "As long as there has been a written word; possibly earlier. Early records are sketchy, as you might have guessed."

"I believe it. My study of ancient Sumeria is taking me to some interesting places. So tell me, how do you know one is Immortal? Do they have special traits? Are they born that way? Does something happen to them?"

He definitely had a curious one on his hands. And with his current topic of study, he might make a very, very good Watcher. Ancient Sumeria? What on earth could a young man find appealing in the ancient world? He wasn't going to look a gift-horse in the mouth, though; he just answered the kid's questions.

"We have no way of knowing who is one, or who will be one. I think they might be able to tell, but we're not supposed to associate with them, so we can't just go up and ask them. We learn by watching them." Joe paused to take a sip of his beer. "Usually we find out someone is Immortal when they challenge another. Sometimes, we happen to get lucky and are there when they have their First Death."

"First?" the man gulped.

"Immortals are just like us," Joe explained. "If they're in a car crash and they die, they die just like we would. The only difference is, they revive."

He let the man absorb that bit of information and gauged his reaction. Not terribly unexpected, but not nearly as bad as some. He'd seen worse on new recruits that made it through training.

"So one day, you're walking along, you get struck by a bus. If you're Immortal, you get back up. If you're not, you get a lovely memorial service. Hell of a way to live, isn't it?" the man sighed.

"Some ways, it's better if we don't know. Maybe it's why we _don't_ know, and they don't tell us." Joe watched as the light in the kid's eyes started to fade...he was getting lost in the 'maybe's. Happened quite a bit. Time to shake things back up. "Let's get off this subject; beer and maudlin don't go together well. What else did you want to know?"

The man was quiet for a minute, then asked softly, "Why were you there tonight?"

"The woman I was with is also a Watcher. I was sent as her senior, to see how she did."

"How'd she do?" he asked.

"Very well, as I suspected. I sponsored her, after all." Joe's grin nearly split his face.

"You're her senior," the man mused. His face suddenly darkened. "Do you have ranks? Is this a military organization?"

"No," Joe assured him. "We're a society, like the Lions or a Fraternity...just without the secret handshake."

The man relaxed again. "A brotherhood?"

"Something like that. We're real good at keeping secrets. We're good at blending into the background and not being seen. As I said earlier, we don't interfere. No matter what happens."

"So what do you do when you're not sponsoring someone or lurking about in alleyways?" the man teased.

Joe let his grin show, and the man answered with one of his own. Good, he was pretty much relaxed now. He settled back in his chair as he answered, "I run a bookstore here in Paris. I watch one called Duncan MacLeod. That woman was one of his former students."

"A student of what?" Aha, another new aspect for the kid to latch on to. He was a very good listener, as well as observer.

"Of what they are. Of what they must do to survive. For them, their existence is a double edged sword -- pardon the pun. On one hand, they get to live forever. But others of their kind challenge them in ritual combat. Some don't want to fight; some refuse to. But eventually, there will be only one."

"Why?" the man asked, perplexed.

Joe shrugged. "It's always been understood. As far back as our records go, that has remained constant: there can be only One. We don't know why, and we don't know what that will mean. That's why we observe them; we hope that by recording their lives, we'll learn what they're here for."

Joe watched as the kid's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Are they a threat to us?"

A legitimate question, though Joe had always hated it. He'd seen the worst, and he'd seen the best. They were no different from mortals; that much he was sure of. "Not most of them. There are a few bad ones out there, just like there are bad ones of us. Their _existence_ is not a threat to us. Most of them just want to live a quiet life. But the Game doesn't always let them, and they're dragged into fights like the one you saw tonight."

"Game? It's part of some game?" the man asked, horrified.

Damn, maybe _he_ should go up for review. So far, he'd handled this pretty badly. The kid was doing better than he was! He took a sip of his beer to cover his snarl of disapproval at himself. "It's a poorly inadequate term, but it's what we've overheard them call it. Killing each other to get the Prize when there are only two left; that's the Game. A very deadly one, as you witnessed tonight."

They were both silent for awhile, both lost in their own thoughts. Finally, the kid spoke. "But...why have we never heard of this before? Seen anything about them in the papers?"

"Your reaction tonight, for starters," Joe remarked with a nod. "Our job is to make sure that they are kept out of the spotlight as much as possible. A few rise to high status in society, but they take care of their own affairs. The normals, the ones who just want to live quietly, those we try to protect. My charge is out taking care of the body as we sit here."

The man paled visibly.

Joe felt sorry for him. "Don't worry; she's not the squeamish type. She's a doctor."

"But still," he remarked with a shudder. "Do all of you watch?"

"No, we have a vast research network," Joe started to explain, then noted how the man's entire expression had changed. This interested him. He continued, "They try to trace lost Immortals; ones that have been out of the Game for a long time, or those that have gone into hiding. We have specialists trained to try to label new Immortals as soon as they've had First Death. And we have historians," Joe finished, knowing that would get the man's full attention.

" _How_ history-historians? How far back are we talking here?"

Joe settled back in his chair to get comfortable. He knew this was the selling bait for the kid. There was no way he could pass up what he was about to divulge. "There's a legend of an Immortal so old, he cannot remember the time of his birth. We've placed his First Death at about five thousand years ago. He's a mystery. No one is positive what he looks like; none of our past historians have agreed on his coloring, let alone his height. We do have chronicles by past Watchers who got to follow him for a few months at a time, then he gave them the slip, to disappear again for ten or twenty years. Then he'd pop back up and we'd trail him again. He's shown up in other Chronicles as well, and it's possible he's in a lot more. When we don't have an identity of an Immortal, someone has always tried to say it was Methos."

The man had been listening, enthralled, but perked up at the last word. "Is that his name?"

"As far as we know, yes. He's announced himself to challengers before, but not for over fifteen hundred years. It's not healthy for him to go around announcing who he is." Joe couldn't keep the sadness from his voice as he spoke the last bit.

"Why? What good would be accomplished by _killing_ him! Think of what the man has seen; who he's talked to. Who he must have known." The man's eyes were sparkling, and Joe couldn't help but laugh.

His laughter faded quickly as the conversation turned serious again. "I see I forgot to tell you something very important. When one Immortal beheads another, there's an energy transference. The victor gets the loser's energy, karma, power; whatever you want to call it. It goes to the winner. So the more powerful an Immortal, the more power and knowledge they receive. We're not sure if age makes any difference to how powerful the Quickening is, but think about it: Methos is over five thousand years old. He's the most wanted man on the planet."

"I guess he would be," the man mused, suddenly very quiet. He glanced up. "Quickening?"

"That's the energy transference; the light show we saw. Sorry. I keep forgetting you're new to this."

"That's all right," he murmured.

"How're you doing with all of this?" Joe asked, slightly worried at how quiet his new friend had gotten.

"I think I'm okay. Just trying to piece together everything." He looked up suddenly, and Joe felt the weight of his gaze settle on his shoulders. "You've told me all this. What happens now? I can't just walk away, can I?"

Shrewd. Very shrewd. Definitely a good candidate. "I'll be honest with you; I've been observing you're reactions to everything I've told you tonight, and I think you're excellent Watcher material. I'll even sponsor you, or pass you along to a friend of mine. You can talk to him, get to know a few others like us, see if we mesh with your lifestyle. However, if you choose not to join us, there will have to be certain assurances we'd need to get from you that you would never divulge any of this to anyone."

"Family? Friends?" the man questioned.

"No one," Joe repeated in a solemn voice. "We're very private and very selective. We have to be, or else the Immortal's secret would get out, and we'd all be in trouble. You see how that could lead to world chaos, don't you?"

The man was quiet for another long minute, then he nodded slowly. "Yes, I see. Well, since you're so damn sure of me, why not let me join right now? What do I have to do?"

Joe held up a hand, though he smiled. "Whoa, kid, not that fast. We have to do some checks first, make sure you're psychologically capable of handling the stress. Of course, if you didn't want to do field work, that's a whole different ball of wax."

The man waved his hands excitedly. "I could do research. I've been studying half my life for a research grant from the university, but they haven't gotten around to approving my request for my graduate studies. I _want_ this."

"I can see you do. Okay, tell you what. I'll contact my superiors here in Paris and explain the situation. Here's my card." Joe dug in his wallet for his business card, then snapped it onto the table top. "Come by the shop about four tomorrow; we'll see what can be arranged then. My hunches are usually right, though, so I'd say welcome to a whole new world, kid."

Joe stuck out his hand and the man shook it; a warm, firm grip. He suddenly laughed. "I never even asked your name!"

"Nor I you," the man countered with a smile.

"Joe Dawson," Joe replied, nodding once.

"Adam Pierson," the man answered, with a very small head tilt.

"Well, Mr. Pierson, I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow." Joe stood up and adjusted his coat.

"I guess so," Adam replied quietly. "Tomorrow then."

Joe nodded once more, then braced himself for the walk back to the car.

All in all, he didn't think he did too bad. Sometimes the best defense was a good offense; once again, that had paid off. The kid seemed to handle everything pretty well, and asked all the right questions. He'd get in touch with Don and Jacques in the morning and let them judge, but he thought the kid was the perfect candidate for the Methos Project. The position had been idle for awhile, but it was Don's pet project, and once he met Pierson, Don was bound to see what Joe had seen.

~~~

Adam watched the Watcher leave, a disappointed frown on his face. They had learned nothing new in the three hundred years he had been separated from them. They still didn't know what the Game was about, and they still didn't know why Immortals were who they were. But, they were keeping true to their oath, and for that he could not fault them. Dawson had mentioned MacLeod; now that one he had been keeping an eye on, thanks to Darius' insistence. If not for his old friend, he might not have noticed the young Scotsman. But Darius followed most of the younglings, and thought MacLeod had something special. After Darius had described how MacLeod had changed over the years, Adam grew interested. MacLeod had removed himself from the Game and taken a mortal woman as lover, two things that Adam had tried over the centuries; neither lasting for very long. Lovers died, and another Immortal always found him. Soon, too soon, probably, MacLeod's world would be shattered. He only hoped Darius would be there to provide comfort; the priest had offered comfort and shelter many times to him, and he would forever be grateful to him for that. After all, they were kindred spirits.

He had just gotten back from a meeting with Darius, who had told him the time was right for him to come back out of hiding. Adam hated it, but knew his friend was right. The best defense was a good offense, and with the new computer age upon them, it would be harder for Methos to hide himself. So, he would re-establish himself with the Watchers to keep an eye on MacLeod's adventures, and possibly look up some old friends in the meantime. And when the time was right, he would allow MacLeod to find him. A smirk turned up the corners of Adam's mouth; it wasn't every day you met a legend. And when Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod learned just who he was...things were bound to get interesting.

The End


End file.
